


when life happens loudly

by sheelia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheelia/pseuds/sheelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamaguchi catches himself reaching for his binoculars again, suppressing the thoughts in his mind that rise up like bile to his stomach. He shifts a little to the side to get a better view, bringing the binoculars up to his eyes. His attention is directed to the apartment one floor below on the opposite side. </p><p>He tries not to feel like such a creep. He assures himself that this is what normal neighbors do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when life happens loudly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLittleMarchHare (freckleder)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleder/gifts).



> Hi TheLittleMarchHare!!!! Merry Christmas!! (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧ I hope you enjoy this Tsukishima/Yamaguchi piece that I wrote for you! I tried my best to write them to the best of my understanding, but seeing that you're a large Tsukishima and Yamaguchi fan (I am such a creep oops) I hope that my characterization of them was to your liking! Have a great Christmas and an awesome 2016!

Yamaguchi catches himself reaching for his binoculars again, suppressing the thoughts in his mind that rise up like bile to his stomach. This is not the beginning of a problem.

He reasons with himself: the third time is as bad as the second, and considering the rate of his downward spiral, a little indulgence wouldn’t hurt.

Outside, the clouds are etched against the sky, the sunset framing each one with a soft rose glow. He shifts a little to the side to get a better view, bringing the binoculars up to his eyes. His attention is directed to the apartment one floor below on the opposite side. He tries not to feel like such a creep.

Of course, this had been an entire accident in the first place. And the way accidents work is that he’s not at fault. So there. Nimbly, he adjusts the focus on his pair of binoculars.

In the other apartment, the light is turned down low, so Yamaguchi can only barely make out the subtle movements. The boy’s shirt is faded army fatigue; his hair mussed; and he moves his body lazily, as if he were in a dream. He is moving to music Yamaguchi cannot hear, and Yamaguchi feels as if, from the languid, dreamy movements, he’s being transported back to the 50s.

It was two nights ago when Yamaguchi started watching him dance. He was cleaning out the bird crap on his balcony when he noticed someone moving into the long vacant apartment opposite his. That time he didn’t have binoculars with him, obviously. He blinked and looked away, thinking that he had intruded on a private moment.

And then it happened again. And again. At this point, it’s not his fault for watching.

It would be nice to meet this new neighbor of his, though considering everything that’s transpired Yamaguchi might just burst an artery from embarrassment. He decides to leave socializing to another day. Preferably never.

 

-

 

It happens again the next morning. It’s a Saturday, and Yamaguchi is in the middle of eating his buttered toast when he thinks to look outside from the balcony. He’s just checking on his neighbor’s moving progress. That’s the thing normal neighbors do.

Yamaguchi reaches for his binoculars, conspicuously placed next to his potted petunias.

The guy - Yamaguchi should really make an effort to learn his name - is in his living room, pacing around with a mug of coffee. He takes two steps forward, then one step back. Occasionally he brings an arm up to wrap around his imaginary partner.

Yamaguchi snickers.

Nothing about this man is superfluous; his interior decoration is minimal and to be honest, dead boring. He has sharp cheekbones and his hair is a faint platinum blonde. Any man on the street would agree that he was handsome, but the more Yamaguchi stared, the less he saw. What defined his face was a paucity of expression – Yamaguchi never once saw his expression falter, not even when he stubbed his toe on the coffee table. He might have groaned, yes, his lips just barely cracking into a frown, but that’s not really enough for Yamaguchi.

Yamaguchi feels something land on his arm.

“God dammit,” he didn’t mean to shout, but the sight of fresh bird crap on his left arm was a declaration of war.

At that sound of Yamaguchi’s vulgar exclamation the blond looks up. Their eyes lock through his binoculars, and Yamaguchi watches the man’s expression change for the first time. He feels the breath leave his lungs from the intensity of the other’s accusatory stare. Yamaguchi visibly winces, and in a state of panic he throws his pair of binoculars off his balcony. He lets this all process for a while, eyes following his neighbor’s arms as they fall to his side. The twisting in his stomach feels like guilt, and the sound of his binoculars hitting the concrete was like a blow to his cheek.

Yamaguchi reacts to this in the best way he knows how: He flees.

 

-

 

Yamaguchi clenches and unclenches his hands over his knees as he calms himself down in his living room. It’s too early in the morning for something like this to happen. He contemplates going back to bed so that he can pretend that everything is fine.

His unsteady hands fumble for the television remote. Historical drama? Ew. The news? Ugh. MTV?

He turns the TV back off and discards the remote to the other end of the couch pathetically.

 

-

 

Later in the afternoon, Yamaguchi thinks to go downstairs to retrieve his binoculars. He jogs down the stairs – it’s been weeks since the elevator broke down, and Yamaguchi figures that he’ll just have to get used to climbing stairs the rest of his life.

He checks the pavement first for broken bits of his binoculars but he comes up with nothing. Great.

In one way or another Yamaguchi finds himself wading through the bushes a few minutes later, and he swears something’s in his pants. Suddenly, as if propelled by a gunshot, Yamaguchi squats down and hides himself between mucky smelling leaves. Through the gaps he watches his blonde neighbor exit his apartment block with some paper bags in his hand and keys in the other. He swings his keychain in circles on his finger, unfazed by the world around him.

 

-

 

Yamaguchi’s checking his mail when he feels a foreign presence next to him. He dares to take a sideways glance and his body freezes, as if he were plunged into a pool of ice cold water.

 _Um_.

It’s him. Of course it has to be him.

His neighbor – Tsukishima, Yamaguchi learns from the kanji on his letterbox – is retrieving his mail as well. He doesn’t spare Yamaguchi a glance, which is frankly quite insulting, being neighbors and all, but Yamaguchi prefers this to actual confrontation. They are in the small lobby that houses the mailboxes of all the apartment residents. Tsukishima picks out the important looking letters and leaves the pizza advertisements in his letterbox, as though they would magically disappear the next time he opened it.

Yamaguchi takes this as his cue to slip away. It’s only when he’s back upstairs, panting at the foot of his door, that he realizes he forgot to take his mail up with him.

 

-

 

This is unacceptable.

Yamaguchi groans. He has two more minutes until his fourth alarm rings and he _really_ has to go to work. And with his luck, he’ll probably meet this Tsukishima bastard in the parking lot, or in the subway if he decides to take public transport. There’s also that dangerous bird that keeps crapping on everything he owns, and Yamaguchi’s not sure if he’s ready to face the world at all today.

He does decide to go to work by the time his alarm rings though – he really can’t afford to get fired right now.

He checks if the coast is clear, then sprints out into the parking lot and into his car. There’s bird shit on his windshield but he takes it in stride. So far so good.

 

-

 

Yamaguchi is playing with the spare change in his pocket, rolling the coins between his fingers as he examines the greeting card aisle in the convenience store. He needs to move on with his life. It’s impractical to continue dodging Tsukishima. He really likes his apartment and it would be inconvenient and expensive to move.

The lot of the cards are wholly inappropriate, and he decides against anything cute or humorous.

He picks up an "I'm sorry for your loss" card. It was the card with the best fitting message, and Yamaguchi supposes he could cancel out “ _for your loss_ ” with a black marker.

He's shuffling down to the cashier when he spots him between the aisles, a basket of frozen groceries at his feet as he peruses the snack section. Yamaguchi swerves and barely avoids hitting anything over. He makes a quick dash for the cashier and practically throws his coins at the poor man (he didn't mean to do that), and then runs back to his car, unsure of what had got him all so flustered.

Once he’s in the car, he rummages the glove compartment for a pen. He ends up writing a longer than necessary apology on the card under a scratched out " _My condolences_ ". He runs out of white space and has to squeeze his last sentence around a cartoon picture of a dead beaver.

 

-

 

He puts of sending the card to Tsukishima until the next day because he needed extra time to muster up enough courage. He even checks his horoscope in the newspaper, just to be safe.

Opening his door, he comes face to face with a nondescript cardboard box. He looks around to make sure this isn’t a mistake.

He picks the box up and takes it inside, setting it on the dining room table to examine its contents. Inside, he finds a small card, and his binoculars looking as good as new.

 

 

> Dear Yamaguchi-san,
> 
> I’m sorry about the binoculars. People have told me that I have quite an intimidating stare, and I must have shocked you into throwing your binoculars off your balcony. I’m sure a bird enthusiast like you really needs a working pair of binoculars. Enclosed is your pair, which has now been repaired.
> 
> Yours Sincerely,
> 
> Tsukishima Kei

 

Yamaguchi feels his heart swell in a myraid of feelings. His hands grow sweaty around the dead beaver card, his head teetering on the fence of affection and guilt. And then– _Bird Enthusiast_? He fixates on the two words for an extra minute to let it sink in.

Something in his head clicks. Yamaguchi the Bird Enthusiast. He could be Yamaguchi the Bird Enthusiast, and by adopting this new identity he could absolve himself of some the guilt from peeping in on Tsukishima. It seemed like Tsukishima wasn’t aware of Yamaguchi’s previous activities. This would be perfect.

Yamaguchi throws his dead beaver greeting card onto his pile of papers on the table, then dashes into his study. He retrieves construction paper that looks like it was from third grade and cuts a smaller square from the large piece.

He makes twice the usual portions for lunch, tension eased and a little hopeful.

 

-

 

Tsukishima’s mopping the floor when the doorbell rings, an annoying beep against the backdrop of smooth jazz playing on his stereo. He sets his mop down against the wall and heads towards the door.

He opens the door to find his neighbor. Yamaguchi jolts in surprise, though he should have anticipated that Tsukishima was going to open the door. Tsukishima’s gaze slides down to the two bento boxes in Yamaguchi’s hands.

“Hello Tsukishima-san,” Yamaguchi starts, having rehearsed this entire scenario in his head a million times.

“Tsukishima will do,” he corrects swiftly.

Yamaguchi sucks in a breath, “Thanks for the binoculars. I accidentally made too much food… Have you had lunch?”

“That’s very kind of you. I would love to have lunch,” Tsukishima says politely in the voice he uses when he talks to his mother. He opens the door wider, stepping aside so that Yamaguchi can come in.

Yamaguchi walks right through the wet patches on Tsukishima’s floor and he sets the bento sets down on the coffee table in front of the television. The mop lying against his wall remains forgotten. Tsukishima sits himself down on the couch. He’s not sure what to do with his hands. Should he help himself to the food? Or maybe some television to get rid of the silence.

“I’m going to go get a drink. What would you like?” He asks, pushing himself up to his feet.

“Water will do. Thanks,” Yamaguchi replies. His position on the couch mirrored Tsukishima’s a few moments ago. Tsukishima can tell that he doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

In the kitchen, Tsukishima distracts himself by rearranging the mugs in the cupboard. Somewhere in the middle of this he recalls Yamaguchi having a cute smile when he’s flustered.

The rest of lunch is a blur. Yamaguchi isn’t a very charming talker. In fact, his stories always end off in trails of thought. He gets lost along the way and he forgets the point of the story. It would frustrate Tsukishima, but he oddly finds it endearing.

Whenever Yamaguchi smiles, which is almost always all the time, his visage lights up with an abundance of irrepressible good will. This makes it hardly possible for Tsukishima to feel annoyed.

Yamaguchi finishes the remaining rice in his bento, then sets the empty box down. Now that he’s sitting in Tsukishima’s home he has a better view of his interior design. Everything in his apartment looks like it came from a box set, the colors of his furniture uncannily similar. His walls are bare and his floor is spotless. It makes him feel uncomfortable sitting in here. He might stain the couch with the dirt on his pants.

The television in front of them is set to the news. It’s not really Yamaguchi’s taste, but he doesn’t say anything about Tsukishima’s choice in entertainment.

“You’re smoking,” Yamaguchi comments when he sees Tsukishima draw a cigarette from the pack lying on the table.

He raises an eyebrow and looks over, “What about it?”

Yamaguchi almost yelps. He straightens out the imaginary creases on his pants. “Nothing. Didn’t peg you as the type.”

“I experimented in college,” Tsukishima smirks, his lips bending into a new and refreshing shape. Yamaguchi likes it when he smiles, but he doesn’t say anything out loud about that either.

 

-

 

Tsukishima finds a card on one of his stacks of books the next day when he’s cleaning. There are crudely drawn pictures of birds and a short thank you message. It was signed off by Yamaguchi. Next to the name is a string of numbers that had been scratched out, and then decisively rewritten below it.

Tsukishima smiles, then quickly regains his composure, sliding the small square card into his wallet in case he needed it in the future.

 

-

 

Occasionally, Yamaguchi sneaks glances down his balcony. Holding his broom, he peers down to Tsukishima’s apartment to see if he’s in. He pretends to sweep in case someone thinks he looks suspicious.

Sometimes he thinks about Tsukishima. He wonders what he’s up to– Is he cleaning his house again? Doesn’t he get tired of mopping his floor? Or is he out running errands?

He doesn’t see Tsukishima very often, only occasionally catching him at the mailboxes downstairs. They share an awkward nod. Yamaguchi opens his mouth wanting to say something but he chokes. Tsukishima hesitates. One of them excuses themselves, and the cycle repeats again.

Yamaguchi’s hand tightens around his broom handle. Tsukishima doesn’t dance in his living room anymore, and Yamaguchi can’t help but feel slightly guilty.

 

-

 

Tsukishima’s eating in one of the restaurants near his place when Yamaguchi walks in. It’s begun snowing now that they’ve moved into mid-December, the trees having lost their leaves and the sky a permanent gray. Yamaguchi shakes off the snow on his coat like a little puppy, eyes surveying the room for an empty table until his gaze lands on Tsukishima.

There are no empty tables, and Yamaguchi doesn’t mind waiting for one, but then Tsukishima raises his hand to call him over. Gingerly, Yamaguchi weaves through the close-packed tables, careful not to knock over any bottles of soy sauce or hit people with his bag.

“Great weather today, huh?” Tsukishima says as his opening remark.

Yamaguchi unwinds the scarf around his neck. He replies, “Yeah. Terrific.”

“It’s not too cold for the snow to remain on the ground, but everything is wet and my shoes are mucky. It’s pretty gross,” he continues as he settles into his chair. He orders a steaming bowl of Tonkotsu ramen, and it arrives within minutes.

The restaurant’s packed with businessmen in the same black suits. Yamaguchi feels like the youngest person in the room. The men on the table next to him are smoking, and Yamaguchi notices Tsukishima’s pack of cigarettes on the table.

“You can smoke if you want to,” Yamaguchi says between bites of ramen. He slurps loudly – he always has since he was a kid.

Tsukishima pauses. “No, it’s fine.”

“What’s so great about it anyway? It doubt it tastes as good as it smells,” Yamaguchi blurts. He worries that he’s overstepped his boundaries, but sometimes his curiosity gets the best of him.

Tsukishima chuckles, and Yamaguchi feels the world stop. “A lot of Japanese businessmen smoke,” he says, gesturing for Yamaguchi to observe the people around him.

“You’re like, what, 23?” Yamaguchi laughs.

Tsukishima takes a sip of his green tea and his glasses fog up from the heat. “I’m preparing for the future.”

Yamaguchi feels his heart leap, but he pounds a fist against his chest, feeling like he might’ve choked on his own spit.

 

-

 

It stops snowing by the time they leave the restaurant, and the snow on the ground has melted, leaving puddles of water for Yamaguchi to splash his shoes in. The scarf around his neck is loosely draped, leaving his cheeks exposed to the air. It feels very refreshing.

Tsukishima walks beside him quietly. The street lights are lined evenly along the small road they’re walking on, and Yamaguchi watches their shadows shrink and grow with each step.

They reach their apartment complex a few minutes later and they hover at the fork of the path that separate their two buildings.

“I’m going to have a smoke before I head up,” Tsukishima says flatly.

Yamaguchi takes it as an invitation.

Tsukishima leads them to a small patio behind his apartment block. There is a long wooden bench in front of a fence. Tsukishima pulls out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and pats down part of the wooden bench before he sits.

Yamaguchi inspects the bench. It looks dry. He sits and scrunches his face, the same face he makes when he steps into water when he’s still wearing socks. It is not dry.

With practiced movements, Tsukishima takes out his pack of cigarettes and pulls out a single stick with ease, his delicate fingers holding onto it as if he were holding a teacup. He offers Yamaguchi one out of courtesy, even though he knows that he won’t take it.

It is quiet for a long time. The only source of light is the orange glow of Tsukishima’s cigarette tips, floating dreamily around in the blackness like fireflies.

“You look good today,” Tsukishima says as an offhanded comment in between puffs.

Yamaguchi laughs it off, his cheeks burning. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, moving them from his knees to his lap, then into his pockets.

“You look pretty good yourself,” he replies after a while.

The exchange has heightened his anxiety, and Yamaguchi panics with this realization. The air around him grows thin, and Yamaguchi has to excuse himself before he does anything stupid.

 

-

 

Yamaguchi manages avoids thinking about Tsukishima for a grand total of twelve minutes. He thinks about Tsukishima’s smile, and how when he smiles his entire face changes. The lines move in different angles and the light strikes his face in a beautiful way.

The next day, he’s fishing for his keys in his messenger bag when he hears footsteps coming from behind him. Holding a box of pizza and a convenience store plastic bag, Tsukishima emerges up the stairs.

Yamaguchi nearly drops his keys.

“I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me to show up,” he says. It’s only been a day since they’ve last seen each other, but to Yamaguchi it feels like a long time.

“No, no. Of course not,” Yamaguchi smiles.

Yamaguchi opens the door and flicks the light on, leading Tsukishima to the living room.

“I brought pizza and beer,” Tsukishima says as he sets them down in front of the TV. He takes a look around Yamaguchi’s place. There are some pictures hanging on the walls and post-its all over the fridge, and on the coffee table Tsukishima finds a IKEA catalog from three years ago.

Yamaguchi takes him for a short tour of the apartment there isn’t really much for him to see. It is not too cold today, and Yamaguchi considers sliding the glass door to his balcony open.

He pauses in front of the glass. His bird enemy struck again, this time covering his entire balcony in crap. Even on his potted petunias.

“Shit,” he spits out.

Tsukishima bends forward to get a better view. He adds, “Yes. Quite literally.”

“Shut up, Tsukki.”

Tsukishima presses his lips into a thin line, but does not object to the name.

They sit in front of the TV and share the pepperoni pizza Tsukishima brought over.

“Volleyball?” Yamaguchi asks as he flips through channels, deliberately skipping over the news.

Tsukishima talks about his high school volleyball days like a distant memory, and Yamaguchi can’t help but imagine him at 16.

“There’s something I need to admit,” Yamaguchi says after they’ve finished their dinner. Tsukishima takes another sip of his beer, angling his body towards Yamaguchi.

Yamaguchi speaks slowly, haltingly, and with long pauses, sounding physically strained as if he were literally dragging the words out of his mouth, “I haven’t been very truthful with you. I’m… not actually a bird enthusiast.”

He waited eagerly for a response with his eyes shut, as if it would shield him from everything around him.

“I know,” Tsukishima replies like it’s not a big deal. “Birds hate you.”

Yamaguchi sighs as his two hands find their way up to cup his face. “You knew?”

Tsukishima takes another sip of beer, and, chuckling, “It’s pretty obvious.”

“So why did you stop dancing then?” Yamaguchi asks, now looking at Tsukishima.

It’s Tsukishima’s turn to blush, and the rose on his cheeks stand out on his pale skin. “I… didn’t know you could see me. It’s stupid, anyway, I-”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Yamaguchi interrupts. They look at each other wordlessly.

Tsukishima’s lips spread into an embarrassed scowl. Their knees touch, and Yamaguchi feels his warmth seep through his tweed pants. Tsukishima doesn’t inch away, and neither does Yamaguchi.

 

-

 

Yamaguchi leaves cleaning the disaster on his balcony to the next day. It’s a bright Saturday morning. It’s slightly chilly, so Yamaguchi puts on a coat as he steps outside with a mop and bucket in hand.

 _Ick_. Yamaguchi empties an entire bottle of detergent on the floor.

He laments his entire existence as he mops, wondering what he ever did wrong to displease the birds. He’s five minutes into clean-up when he hears the faint sound of jazz from a distance.

He peers over the balcony ledge to have a look, eyeing Tsukishima’s apartment specifically. That’s what normal neighbors do.

Tsukishima’s on his balcony and he shyly sways on his feet, keeping his movements to a minimum. He turns up the music so that Yamaguchi can hear it clearly now, and he motions for Yamaguchi to join him.

Yamaguchi laughs out loud, his entire body feeling light. He swings the mop in his hands like a microphone stand, dancing around it in circle. He feels young and foolish, especially since he _is_ dancing on a minefield of defecation, but it’s certainly the happiest he’s felt in a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> bless eliza / nein for holding my hand as i screamed writing this


End file.
